Life is not orderly. No matter how we try to make life so, right in the middle of it we die, lose a leg, fall in love, drop a jar of applesauce.
In summer, we work hard to make a tidy garden, bordered by pansies with rows or clumps of columbine, petunias, bleeding hearts.
Then we find ourselves longing for the forest, where everything has the appearance of disorder; yet, we feel peaceful there.
Excerpt from “Writing Down the Bones,” by Natalie Goldberg